


iii. my way or the highway

by tempestaurora



Series: the kids aren't alright [whumptober 2020] [3]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Ghosts, Lowkey Torture I Guess But The Ghost-Related Psychological Kind, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:42:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26563792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestaurora/pseuds/tempestaurora
Summary: “Number Four,” Pogo said in the doorway of Number Four’s bedroom. “Your father would like to see you.”Number Four sat up in bed. His father only requested him at night for one reason, and that reason always involved the mausoleum.OR: Klaus, the mausoleum, and the sibling who shows up to keep him company.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves
Series: the kids aren't alright [whumptober 2020] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930186
Comments: 28
Kudos: 299





	iii. my way or the highway

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Manhandled
> 
> this is more based on the offered title than the actual prompts lmao, but that's the case for a lot of these fics. I just wanted to write a Klaus & mausoleum fic

“Number Four,” Pogo said in the doorway of Number Four’s bedroom. “Your father would like to see you.”

Number Four sat up in bed. Lights out had been mere minutes ago, and he’d been planning a quiet escape to Number Six’s room, where they were going to read a _Nancy Drew_ book in the torchlight and snack on the protein bars Number Four had swiped from the kitchen. But now those plans vanished in the dark. His father only requested him at night for one reason, and that reason _always_ involved the mausoleum.

He tried not to think about it too much as he followed Pogo down the hall and across the mezzanine to his father’s office, but the mausoleum wasn’t something that could be easily forgotten. The Hargreeves crypt sat cold and vacant on the far edge of the inner courtyard, on the side of the house they didn’t go near unless their father wanted them in his personal laboratory. Though the mausoleum only homed a handful of corpses, Four had realised when he was young that ghosts were attracted there like moths to flames. Like they could sense the dead and wanted to be among their own kind.

It left the crypt full of souls that he couldn’t hope to banish.

He was ten, and he’d never been much good at banishing ghosts.

His father continued to write in his notebook when Pogo and Four arrived, until he snapped it shut and eyed Four with faint interest.

“Training,” he announced and Four’s knees grew weak. He’d held out a slim hope that he had just been caught stealing food.

“Please, not tonight,” Four asked, and his father’s face twisted in disdain. He stood, an imposing figure, and adjusted his monocle.

“You will train tonight, Number Four, and I will hear no complaints, is that clear?”

Number Four opened his mouth and then shut it tight again. If he complained, his father might leave him in the crypt _all night,_ rather than just for half of it.

He trembled as he followed his father down the stairs and out into the courtyard, but at the sight of the door, Number Four’s feet ground into the cobblestone.

“No, no, no,” he muttered. “I don’t want to go in there—Pogo, help me, you have to—”

“Number Four,” Dad admonished, his voice so harsh that Four froze on the spot, his back ramrod straight. “You _will_ go into the mausoleum, and I _will_ hear no complaints. Come.”

But Four’s feet were weighed down with concrete, and he could already hear the faint murmur of the ghosts. They knew he was coming, could sense him maybe. They liked the smell of fresh blood, of clean skin and apple shampoo. They liked the way his mouth dried, how his screams sounded full-bodied compared to their hollow wails. They were excited to see him again.

“I-I can’t,” Number Four said. “Please don’t make me—”

“Number _Four!_ ” Dad marched over, grabbing his wrist and yanking him across the courtyard. Four stumbled, his feet barely finding purchase, the grip on his wrist so tight he thought it might bruise. He was already in trouble, he was already going in the mausoleum; Four whimpered and pleaded in quiet, weak tones, and Dad’s face grew stormy and tense at his failure of a son.

At the crypt door, his father opened the lock one-handed, and pushed it open, sending a faint light casting over the stone floor.

“Three hours,” his father said, and threw Four into the crypt.

The door was slammed shut before he could even get onto his knees.

Number Four hit his fists against the door as he yelled for his father to come back: “Please! I don’t want to do this! _Please!_ ”

But his father didn’t return, and it wasn’t long before the excited hum of the ghosts grew louder, their gaunt, pale faces appearing in flashes out of the darkness. Number Four curled into the corner, as he always did on these nights, his fingers clawed around his ears and eyes shut tight.

He rocked and begged and pleaded for the ghosts to leave him alone, tried to summon that part of himself that could perhaps control them, but only flailed and cried when he couldn’t find it.

He wasn’t strong enough for this, he wasn’t good enough for this; the ghosts would curl their spindly fingers into his chest and rip out all the important parts. They would howl in his ears until he never heard anything but the mournful cries of the dead, and Number Four would just have to _let_ them—why couldn’t he get this? Why couldn’t he save himself?

“Four,” a voice said, and he slammed his eyes tighter shut still, shaking his head. The ghosts couldn’t know his name or they’d never stop. “Hey, Four.” A hand on his arm, shaking him, and Four’s eyes opened as he lashed out, knocking back whatever ghost had gotten too close for comfort. He didn’t like it when he could feel them, when they grew bold enough to reach out and touch him. But this ghost—

“Five?” His face was faint in the darkness of the crypt, not lit with whatever inner, ghostly light made the others so visible. “You’re dead?”

“Not dead,” Five replied. “Just in a crypt.”

Four pressed his fingertips to Five’s face, and his brother let him as he felt the warmth of life through his cheeks.

“What are you—what are you doing in here?” He flinched as a ghost howled something piercing in his ear and Five grabbed his arm in reassurance, pulling the two of them closer as they sat side by side against the wall. Five held his grip firm but not tight.

“Number Six crept into my room, said Pogo had taken you to Dad,” Five replied, as a series of ghosts took up a disjointed melody that made tears roll from Four’s eyes as the noises flooded through him. He ducked his head and Five continued, “I thought I’d keep you company.”

Four nodded, relieved and scared all in the same moment. He pressed his forehead against Five’s shoulder, against the blue silk pyjamas they all wore.

“What do you hear?” Four asked, as the harmony came to a peaking crescendo, pitched so high he thought it might split his ear drums.

Even with his hands over his ears, Five’s voice was close. “Nothing,” he admitted. “Just you.”

“Just me.” Four sniffed.

“There’s nothing else here,” Five replied. “Just you and me.”

“Just you and me,” Four repeated. The ghosts howled and their fingers reached out to brush across his ankles. They flickered and jittered and their voices split and rejoined in some ungodly song. “Just you and me.”

Five said nothing as Four muttered those words again and again, like if he said them enough times he might just believe them. It was just him and Five. Just two brothers sitting in the dark and the ghosts weren’t really _there._ They were gone, and they didn’t exist, and they couldn’t hurt him. And even if those words were lies, Five was still here anyway, and he was unbothered, and not afraid, and he wouldn’t leave Four to be swallowed by the ghosts anyway.

Eventually, Five started talking quietly about the advanced mathematics he was teaching himself from textbooks Pogo had acquired from the library for him. He talked firmly, consistently, taking few breaths as he droned on about integers or ordinal numbers, and lots of other things that Four didn’t understand. His voice couldn’t drown out the crying and wailing of the dead, but it gave Four something to latch onto, to hold tight in his fingertips to keep him from drowning in fear.

When three hours came to a close, Five whispered, “I’ll be nearby,” and vanished from Four’s side mere seconds before his father opened up the door.

He stared at his son, crying softly and curled in the corner, before announcing, “Three more hours,” and shutting Four back in the mausoleum before he had a chance to protest.

But he wasn’t alone long, as Five reappeared by his side in a flash of blue, and said, “Where was I? Oh, Oblate Spheroids,” and continued on, linking his fingers around Four’s wrist and not letting go for anything.

The next day they would be tired in class, and drowsy in training, and both would fall asleep in that thirty-minute period between the last session of the day and dinner, but Five wouldn’t even pretend to care. But he would smile that lopsided, crooked smile when Four invited him to join he and Six when they next read _Nancy Drew,_ and he swiped a third protein bar, just for him.

There was little Four could do to repay his brother, but Five didn’t seem to mind. He showed up the next time Four was left in the crypt, and started talking about his interest in quantum physics, as if he weren’t the lifeline keeping Number Four from drifting out into a deep, mournful sea.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! thank u for reading, i hope u enjoyed this one! pretty please talk to me in the comments, i'm not actually done writing this month's whumptober fics yet and comments are the inspiration i desperately need to finish
> 
> also come talk to me on [tumblr!](tempestaurora.tumblr.com) i'm a solid 6.5/10 blog don't u worry


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